When he finally stepped off the bike, the air shifted.
Mid-forties. Broad shoulders. Black short-sleeve leather vest over a plain white T-shirt. Tattoos running down both arms. Beard edged with gray. Boots heavy on pavement.
He didn’t smile.
Didn’t greet anyone.
He walked straight toward the folding table.
The man holding Amanda’s ring stepped back instinctively.
“Can I help you?” Amanda asked quietly.
The biker picked up the framed wedding photo first.
Turned it face up.
Studied it.
“Everything for sale?” he asked.
Her jaw tightened. “Yes.”
He scanned the lawn. The crib. The couch. The boxes labeled Kitchen.
Then he looked at the ring still resting on the table.
